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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25754461">Dream a Little Bigger</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenTheatrics/pseuds/mxnsterhouse'>mxnsterhouse (QueenTheatrics)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Inception Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death In Dream, Crime, M/M, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, like that's how they wake themselves from the dream, past bill denbrough/mike hanlon, what will the future hold for them? :)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:20:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,751</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25754461</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenTheatrics/pseuds/mxnsterhouse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year 2020, Dreamwork has been made illegal in nearly every form. An underground network of Extractors, Thieves and Architects has sprung up, entering dreams and stealing secrets.</p><p>Bill Denbrough, wrongly accused of killing his brother, has one last chance to clear his name, but first, he'll have to do the impossible.</p><p>--</p><p>Or, an Inception AU.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Dream a Little Bigger</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>welcome to the first chapter of a story that i have been working on since the beginning of lockdown! can you believe we're still here? no me neither!!</p><p>a small primer, in case you haven't seen inception (2010):<br/>in the world of dreamshare, people use a special compound called somnacin and a device called a pasiv to enter each other's dreams. this is more often than not used for Crime such as stealing secrets, plans and information.</p><p>tags for the story will be updated as we go but if you've seen the it films and the inception film you should be fine but if there's anything specific i should tag lmk!</p><p>come talk to me on twitter @mxnsterhouse and thank you so much to @sabisuns and @fandomfix8 for letting me yell about this!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been over six months since the last time they did this. It feels good to be back under, back in the world of dreaming, to feel the slow drag of the Somnacin compound creeping through his veins. It makes his head heavy, his heart slow down, like a hundred year old tortoise. Eddie can hear Bill’s breathing beside him: deep and calm, like it always is in the dream. </p><p> </p><p>They’re a good team, the two of them. Point Man, Extractor. The man who finds the secrets and the man who steals them. They have been a good team since the old days, when dreaming was legal and sanctioned, encouraged, even. Lauded as the next great scientific advancement that would hurtle humanity into the new age. But that was before the Dreamshare programme was shut down and they were all turfed out into the cold, an issue of ethics and science and power. Owning the PASIV, the device that makes sharing dreams possible, isn’t illegal, but using it is. Eddie and Bill have been working in the grey areas in between for years, occasionally extracting secrets, sometimes preventing them from being taken. Dreamwork may be illegal now, for the most part, but that hasn’t stopped its spread. </p><p> </p><p>The best thing about dreaming, if you asked Bill, is that you get to explore an infinite number of worlds inside the dream. If you asked Eddie, he’d tell you to fuck off. Today, they’re in a big industrial compound, grey and cold and threatening. Guards are posted at every entrance - they haven’t noticed the two men yet, but they won’t be held off for much longer. As they get closer to the door, and closer to their target, Eddie feels a wave of tension wash over him, like the tide crashing into him from behind. He turns and checks behind him as he reaches the door and sees one of the guards turning his head in their direction. He tugs on the door and finds it locked, and it rattles loudly, the echo bouncing off the walls. Three more of the guards look in their direction. Eddie and Bill hold their breath for a count of one, two, three, and then all is silent once more.</p><p> </p><p>“We can’t get in this way.” Eddie says, reasonably. </p><p> </p><p>“Then we’re going in through the window.” Bill says, less reasonably. Eddie has to press his palms into his eyes until he sees stars, count backwards from ten, and then he turns to Bill and says, “Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>They go in through the window. The room is long and narrow, the huge doors they’d just tried to go through similarly bolted on the other side. Floor to ceiling bookshelves, made of dark, heavy mahogany, run along the entire wall on their right filled with books and filing boxes and trinkets and knick knacks. A long conference table fills the centre of the room with a single box on top. Bill goes to step towards it but Eddie stops him with a hand on his chest. He can feel Bill’s heartbeat under the back of his hand. Strong, slow, steady. Calm.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t create that box.” Eddie says, looking at it with something like disgust. “The subject’s mind wouldn’t fill <em> that </em>with secrets.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” Bill says. That’s one thing Eddie likes about Bill—he trusts Eddie implicitly. “Where is it, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’ll be some sort of safe. It’s probably behind the bookshelves.” They take a moment to look at the herculean task in front of them—the thirty foot long bookshelf, and the timer on Bill’s wrist quickly trickling to zero. </p><p> </p><p>“You couldn’t have designed smaller bookshelves?”</p><p> </p><p>“Talk to Hockstetter. He’s the architect, not me.” Eddie grunts, already making his way towards the shelves. “Come on, we don’t have a lot of time.” They start pulling books off the shelves at random until Eddie eventually loses it and just yanks each shelf over. Each one makes a horrific, reverberating crash but they find the safe nestled into the wall behind the third shelf. Bill presses his ear to the safe and begins to tick the lock from one side to the other, murmuring directions and numbers to himself under his breath; Eddie presses his ear to the door and hears the sound of running steps coming towards them. A long pause, and then an earsplitting <em> boom </em> as the guards start to force the door open.</p><p> </p><p>“Hurry the fuck up, Bill.” Eddie urges, edging away from the door. With a glance in Bill’s direction, he pulls his shotgun up to his shoulder and trains it on the door. The door begins to slowly fold in on itself like crumpled paper, and he can see the tiniest beam of light creeping in through the widening gap between the doors. </p><p> </p><p>“Got it!” Bill says, and there’s a rustle of paper as he goes through the evidence, taking it all in to deliver to the client. Just as he drops the paper on the ground in triumph, the door swings open and five sets of heavy booted feet march in. Disgruntled, at gunpoint and more than a little pissed off, Eddie drops his gun and raises his hands in the air.</p><p> </p><p>“Thought you said this would be an easy job,” Eddie mutters out of the corner of his mouth. Bill’s hands are behind his head, so he has to turn his whole torso to talk to Eddie, elbows swinging dangerously close to his eye. </p><p> </p><p>“It was supposed to be.” Bill mutters back, eyes trained on the door. Behind the masked guards, there’s another set of footsteps—lighter, softer, less threatening. The owner of the footsteps steps out and—</p><p> </p><p>“Georgie,” Bill breathes, and it sounds almost like relief. </p><p> </p><p>“Bill,” Eddie says, his voice low but alarmed. Bill takes no notice of it. He just smiles a soft smile at his brother. Then Georgie pulls out the gun, and Bill’s smile leaves his lips as though it’s been slapped from his face. The gun is on Bill at first, on his throat, but Georgie narrows his eyes and reconsiders. The gun shifts, right between Eddie’s eyes. Eddie, instead of being afraid, is completely enraged.</p><p> </p><p>“This is so typical, Bill, I swear to fuck I am never fucking working with you again.” Eddie turns his laser-hot gaze to Georgie. “Hi, Georgie, nice to see you again, but we’re a bit busy so why don’t you fuck off!”</p><p> </p><p>“Georgie, please.” Bill says. His voice is soft, defenceless in the way it only is with his brother. Georgie’s eyes flicker between them, and he, too, seems to flicker a bit, a slight haze behind him. Like a mirage in the desert. “I have everything I need. The timer is about to run out. There’s nothing for you here.”</p><p> </p><p>Georgie looks down thoughtfully, examining his gun with rigour. “If I kill you, you’ll just wake up.” He says. His voice sounds younger than the twenty-three years on his face, but the look in his eyes is much older. “But pain is in the mind.” Something almost wistful crosses his face at that, and then he’s lowering the gun, cocking the hammer, and shooting Eddie in the thigh. He crumples to the ground, cursing Georgie, cursing Bill, and even thinking about cursing himself. He stops himself before he can say it, and instead curses Bill more. </p><p> </p><p>“Why are you here, Georgie?” Bill says, in a voice that is trembling with hurt. When Bill tries to reach for Eddie, Eddie gives him the most murderous glare he can muster, and Bill pulls back.</p><p> </p><p>“I just wanted to spend some quality time with my big brother.” Georgie says, and he raises the gun again. His hands shake as he says, almost dreamily, “I’ve been waiting for a train.” Before he can finish, however, Bill has reached behind his back and pulled out the gun he always stuffs down the back of his trousers, shot Eddie in the head to wake him up and shot himself in turn.</p><p> </p><p>They wake in a hotel room with a heaving gasp, and the morning sun is warming their skin through the drapes. The mark—some chump on the board of directors of a marketing company, is still asleep on the bed. He’ll wake in a few minutes, a little disoriented, but he’ll put the whole thing down to too much beer before bed. He won’t even know Bill and Eddie have been inside his mind until all the company secrets are in the waiting hands of his rival. When they sit up, Hockstetter is slumped in a chair with a magazine in his hands. </p><p> </p><p>“You asshole!” Eddie says, the moment he’s ripped the PASIV line from his hand. “You’re supposed to be on our side, make it as easy for us as possible. What the hell was that, with all those identical rooms and the locked doors and that goddamn thirty foot bookshelf! If I didn’t know any better I’d say—“ Eddie stops dead, because on the stairs, he can hear the shuffling of footsteps. He grabs Bill’s wrist and begins to clock all their possible exits. A slow, menacing grin comes over Hockstetter’s face.</p><p> </p><p>“W-what did you do, Patrick?” Bill says, horror flooding his features. He looks around him, just a couple seconds behind Eddie, and Eddie clocks the exact moment they both realise what is about to happen.</p><p> </p><p>“What I had to, asswipe.” Hockstetter says, but there’s nothing in him that seems to suggest he’d felt any obligation beyond the pleasure of it. “Called my old buddy, Henry. Did ya know his dad’s the one leading that nationwide manhunt for you?” He lets out a low chuckle, chillingly cold. “Have fun in prison. I hear they still have the electric chair for murderers in this state.”</p><p> </p><p>“On three.” Eddie says, softly. It’s a testament to how fucked up their lives have become lately that Eddie doesn’t need to specify what they’re about to do. Just as Hockstetter yells for the intruders, Eddie closes the PASIV case, yells <em> three </em> and they launch themselves through the open window onto the veranda of the store below. They roll off, Eddie clutching the PASIV protectively to his chest and bolt out onto the street.</p><p> </p><p>From there, they run. Hockstetter’s friends try to follow the same way, but too many of them crowd the window and it takes them a minute to organise, which gives Eddie and Bill the head start they need to reach Eddie’s Escalade, parked, unassuming, outside a bank. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, Eddie, a-activate m-m-maniac mode!” Bill yells, frantically strapping his seatbelt on as fast as he can. Eddie grins and throws the car into reverse, taking her at top speed down the narrow streets. He reaches a junction and performs an absurd handbrake turn to face her the right way, and then he’s off, towards the interstate, towards salvation.</p><p> </p><p>The drive after that is long, once they’re sure they’ve lost their tail. Eddie pulls them over to the side of the road long enough to change the plates on the car and pump up the tyres, and then they’re off again for a sixteen hour drive that only takes twelve and a half with Eddie burning a hole in the carpet beneath the accelerator. Eddie pops caffeine pills and energy drinks all the way there but refuses to let Bill touch the steering wheel, and by the time they reach their warehouse on the outskirts of DC, he’s practically vibrating with artificial energy. </p><p> </p><p>“Sleep.” Bill says, pushing him towards the cots in the corner of the room.</p><p> </p><p>“We need to talk, Bill.” Eddie says, but he’s so jittery his teeth are chattering. “Georgie—“</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to t-talk about G-georgie.” Bill says, as though the matter is closed.</p><p> </p><p>“Not now, or not ever?” Eddie says. “Because only one of those things I can accept.” He stands in front of Bill so he’s forced to look at him. “It’s getting worse, Bill. Since last time.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can handle it.”</p><p> </p><p>“He shot me!” Eddie says. “Is that not sinking in? He shot me in the fucking thigh and he laughed.” </p><p> </p><p>“He’s n-not real!”</p><p> </p><p>“Tell that to the giant hole I had in my leg!” Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s gone, Bill. He’s dead. He died a year ago and I’m sorry you still haven’t dealt with it but I <em> really </em> need it to not put my mental sanity in danger for, like, five minutes.”</p><p> </p><p>Bill says nothing and Eddie, too wired to do anything but rage uselessly in his general direction, grabs at his tie and throws it in a ball in the corner. He thinks better of it before it even hits the ground and scoops it up to hang it on a coathanger. Without a backwards glance in Bill’s direction, he gathers his sleep clothes and heads towards the bathroom.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>That night, Bill dreams. Long lost to them is the natural state of dreaming; the whir of the PASIV is a slim comfort to him as he pushes the needle into his skin. On the other side of the warehouse, Eddie is asleep on the cot, sleep mask on, the way he has been for the last three hours. Eddie, who forgoes sleep when working except for power naps, always sleeps like the dead for a good fifteen or sixteen hours after a job, so Bill figures he’s got time. As he presses the button, the flow of Somnacin warms him from within, and he closes his eyes and sinks inwards.</p><p> </p><p>He blinks and he’s on the street outside of his house—his old house, in Derry, the one with the swing out back and the piano in the front room that his mother used to play in the evening. It’s summer here, late summer, and the air around him is wet and heavy with impending rain. He looks down—he’s still him, still thirty-one and prematurely greying, still wearing the same clothes he escaped from Hockstetter in, but in front of him is Georgie, aged six, in a red sweater and jeans. Bill remembers this day - he’d been thirteen, too big for his boots, running down to the Barrens with his friends to cause chaos in the woods.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, kid,” Bill says. Georgie is sitting on the sidewalk, scuffing his toes along the ground. Bill grunts as he sits down next to him, bent practically double with his knees up by his ears. “Something the matter?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re always going off with your friends.” Georgie says, pouting. He looks up at Bill with wide, earnest eyes. Christ, he’s young, Bill thinks. He finds it impossible to believe that he, himself, was ever that young. “I get left behind and you’re always leaving me for them.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, Georgie.” Bill says. He puts his arm around the kid. “I really am sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>“Can you tell me the story about the train again, Billy?” Georgie says, his wide eyes reflecting back Bill’s own face. He looks down at Georgie, the same age as he’d been when he became a big brother and thinks of how different their lives had been. Right up until the end of one of them.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure, pal,” He says, squeezing him to his side, and begins to speak.</p><p> </p><p>When the story is done, he leaves Georgie on the sidewalk and heads into the house. On his left is the closed door to the kitchen where <em> the </em>memory, the last memory, resides. He walks past it, lips pressed in a grim line. Not tonight. Instead, he climbs the stairs. His fingers trail along the chipped paintwork on the railing, brush over the crooked photographs on the wall. On the upper landing, the door to Georgie’s bedroom is slightly ajar. A new memory. A new Georgie, older now, nearly a teenager. He’s sitting at his desk scrawling on a piece of paper in an untidy hand. Bill recognises this day—long, painful years ago, when he’d told Georgie he was joining the Dreamshare programme. When he’d told him it meant he was leaving. Georgie, as he always does, looks at him with betrayal in his big eyes, turns his back on him, and continues with his scribbling. Bill doesn’t have to walk forward to know what he’s drawing - a picture of their family, all in red, a black line through Bill’s face.</p><p> </p><p>As he pulls the door shut behind him, an adult Georgie walks up the stairs. Over the years, Georgie had turned from a sweet kid into a confused and angry teenager, and with no one around but Bill’s parents, wrapped up in their own denial, Georgie’s resentment had been allowed to fester. The result stands before Bill now—a grown, adult Georgie, taller than Bill by more than a head, with so much hurt he has nowhere to put it all.</p><p> </p><p>“Georgie—“ Bill starts, but it comes out more like a whisper. He clears his throat and tries again. “Georgie, you can’t come into my dreams anymore.” He says. “That’s my work.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re always telling me where I can and can’t go, Bill.” Georgie says. “You’re always leaving me behind.”</p><p> </p><p>“I always come back though, don’t I?” Bill tries, as he tries every night he comes here. Eddie once told him that the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Bill doesn’t know what it says about him that he built an entire dream palace to test that theory.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t stay long after that. Some nights he’ll go through all the memories he has catalogued in his little cold museum, a bizarre form of self-inflicted torture. Some nights, just sitting on the sidewalk with Georgie is enough. Tonight, he closes the door on the memory, sits at the top of the stairs, and waits for the time to run out.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>When he wakes, he’s not alone. At first he thinks it’s Eddie, but the figure is so still and silent that he immediately dismisses that. Eddie’s like a rabid chihuahua <em> without </em> coffee, and the amount of caffeine he’d consumed in the last 24 hours had been truly irresponsible. He sits up, pulling the line from his arm and takes in the figure. He’s shrouded almost completely in darkness, with the light from the moon coming in through the high windows reflecting off the wire-frame glasses he’s wearing. Bill can just make out a mop of tightly curled hair and not much else. When the figure sees he’s awake, he stands. Bill stands too, reaching for his gun.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, I moved it.” The voice says. There’s something thinly amused in the soft voice, as if he’s enjoying the spectacle of Bill waking up defenceless and stupid. “I couldn’t have you shooting me before you had the chance to hear me out.”</p><p> </p><p>Now, realistically, Bill knows he’s in Trouble with a capital T. He has more than one government agency on his tail, led by the wrath of one Henry Bowers, who is more than just a nasty character and an ugly personality. Something about the thin voice, though, settles something deep inside of Bill—of course, it could also be the dark figure who has just come up behind him, cocked the hammer on his gun and held it to the back of the guy’s head. Eddie’s dark eyebrows are knitted together in concentration, his jaw tense. His eyes flicker to Bill and in that moment--<em> crack </em>. The guy has lifted his fist in a sharp arc and smacked Eddie right in the nose. In his half asleep stupor, Eddie doubles over in pain, drops the gun and the guy kicks it out of arms’ reach.</p><p> </p><p>“Now, can we <em> please </em> have a civilised conversation?” The guy says. “I’m Stanley Uris, and I want to help you get your life back.”</p><p> </p><p>The light cuts a sharp line down the middle of Stan’s back once they’re finally seated around the plastic garden table and chair set (Bill stole from a skip around six months ago and Eddie spent a weekend in a hazmat suit cleaning from top to tail). Stan is a slight figure, dressed in khakis and a maroon cardigan, but there’s an air of authority about him that even Eddie reluctantly seems to respect. Eddie is sitting on his left, still in the sweatpants and white, now blood-spattered, t-shirt he’d been sleeping in, and he has a bag of ice held to his nose. Above the bag, his eyes are narrowed in Stan’s direction.</p><p> </p><p>“I did apologise.” Stan says, without much sympathy. Eddie says nothing in reply, and Bill ignores the exchange to move on.</p><p> </p><p>“Why d-d-did you say you c-could help me?” He says. He doesn’t allow the tiny bud of hope in his stomach to unfurl any wider, because he’s had his hopes dashed before, he and Eddie both, and it hadn’t been pretty for either.</p><p> </p><p>“Because I <em> can </em> help you.” Stan says. “I know all about your case. And I also know that the driving force behind the manhunt is one guy. A guy I know very well, in fact.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bowers?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm, yes…” Stanley replies, his pursed lips and frown betraying exactly what he thinks of the man in question. “He and my father have been acquaintances since high school. I went to school with his son, Henry. Between us, my father and I have significant… leverage.” </p><p> </p><p>“What’s the catch?” Eddie says, but it comes out like <em> whzzz dcch </em>from behind the ice pack. Bill, rolling his eyes, translates. </p><p> </p><p>“I have a job for you.” Stan admits, sheepish for the first time. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, who’s corporate cardigan secrets do you want us to steal?” Eddie says, lowering the bag. “Or you want us to go to HR and find out exactly which employees have been taking 18 minute comfort breaks instead of the legally mandated fifteen?”</p><p> </p><p>“Inception.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddie actually <em> snorts </em>, a full blown guffaw of a laugh that works its way up from his chest and escapes. Neither Bill nor Stan laugh; in fact, Stan turns his head in Eddie’s direction with one neat eyebrow raised in judgement. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s impossible,” Eddie says, slowly, still half smiling. The smile slides off his face with every passing second as his gaze passes between the two men. “No, Bill, you <em> know </em> it can’t be done. We talked about it for months in Dreamshare. We <em> tried </em> it. It didn’t <em> work </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“It can be done.” Stan says.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?” Eddie says, hotly. “And who made you the goddamn messiah of dreaming?” He rises slightly from his chair, pointing an accusatory finger in Stan’s direction. “You haven’t given us a single reason to trust or believe you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I understand.” Stan says, and then as an aside to Bill, “Nice guard dog.” The vein in Eddie’s temple twitches. Stan then reaches into his pocket - Eddie immediately jumps up, to Stan’s amusement - but Stan just pulls out his phone. He thumbs through a few photos and then shows Bill a picture. Bill’s eyes widen and then he gives Eddie a grave nod. Eddie doesn’t ask to see the picture. He just glares at Stan, somewhat placated, and shifts the ice on his nose.</p><p> </p><p>“So, Inception.” Stan repeats. Eddie snorts once more, but it’s just to himself, and he gets a disapproving frown from Bill. “My father is the head of Uris Publishing Company—we’re the largest manufacturer of maps and information pamphlets in the United States.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve heard of you.” Eddie says, but he doesn’t offer anything further. Bill nods in agreement. Stan continues.</p><p> </p><p>“Our main rival, the Blum Corporation, is about to complete a merger that will expand their company significantly. My father is responding by building two new factories overseas.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you want us to see if their plan is legit?” Eddie says. He sounds disinterested now, and raises the ice pack back up to his nose as his lips curl down.</p><p> </p><p>“Can you stop interrupting?” Stan says, eyes sliding to Eddie, lips turned down.</p><p> </p><p>“He can’t, I’m s-sorry.” Bill says, apologetically. Stan makes a little noise in the back of his throat. </p><p> </p><p>“My father wants me to take over from him soon. He’s old, now, but stubborn. I don’t want to take over the company. I want to leave. I want to marry my fiance who is the daughter of Herbert Blum, and go and live where UPC and Blum can’t touch us.”</p><p> </p><p>Realisation dawns on Bill’s face. </p><p> </p><p>“You w-want us to plant the idea in h-h-his head to let you g-go.”</p><p> </p><p>“He’ll never agree otherwise.” Stan’s lips are pressed in a thin white line, but there’s a sadness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. He has a signet ring on his right ring finger, too ostentatious by half for a man like him to be wearing, and he twists it thoughtfully as his gaze flickers to the big windows. “If we leave, they’ll cut us both off. They’ll blackball us everywhere we go. I can’t--” He lifts his hand to rub at his eyes beneath his glasses. “I can’t give Patty a life like that. Not after everything we’ve been through. But if I can just get my father to <em> agree </em>…” A long deep sigh that works itself from deep in his lungs, the sigh of a person who’s crawled through shit and kept on going. He looks up again, right into Bill’s eyes. “Do this for me, and I’ll get all the charges against you dropped. One phone-call, and it’s done. Oh, and I’ll pay you enough that you’ll never need to work again.”</p><p> </p><p>Bill looks then at Eddie, whose dark eyes are blown black in the night. Bill tries to pour everything into his gaze, the fear and the anger and the desperate plea for all this to be over. Eddie licks his lips once and lets out a derisive huff of air. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” Eddie says, and that’s that.</p><p> </p><p>The next day, Eddie wakes up from the cot feeling groggy, pain still throbbing in his nose. He shrugs on his three piece suit like a piece of armour and shuffles to the little kitchenette in the corner. The only thing he cares about right now is the coffee maker. Bill walks in as the coffee is finished brewing, looking somewhat haggard. He never sleeps at the warehouse unless he’s dreaming; Eddie doesn’t know where he goes when he’s not. He doesn’t want to know, because whoever invented the phrase ‘plausible deniability’ was the smartest fuck alive.</p><p> </p><p>“Always w-with the suits, E-Eddie,” Bill says, gesturing to the outfit, the bruised nose, the deep bags under his eyes. “We’re not m-meeting the queen.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’re on the lam, but that doesn’t mean we have to stop respecting ourselves.” Eddie fires back, eyeing Bill’s ill-fitting jeans, stolen from a thrift store, and his threadbare jean jacket. Bill just rolls his eyes--it’s a familiar argument between the two of them, and it feels good to rehash it after the strangeness of last night. Eddie turns around and leans against the counter, one hand braced on the worktop, the other gripping his coffee cup. He kicks his feet out and crosses one foot over the other. Deliberately casual. </p><p> </p><p>“So, Inception, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not now, Eddie.”</p><p> </p><p>“If not now, when, Bill? Every day we wait is another day closer to <em> you </em> getting caught and <em> me </em>going to prison. Hockstetter was right--you can still get the chair here. And for you, I think they’d do it.” </p><p> </p><p>Eddie’s right, he knows he is, and he sees the resignation in Bill’s face as he drops into the chair beside him. Bill puts his elbows on the table and locks his hands behind his head, eyes boring into the tabletop in front of him.</p><p> </p><p>“If we’re g-going to do this, you know who w-we n-need.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddie doesn’t have to ask who Bill means. He feels a familiar panic crawling around inside him, but chooses not to let it show. Instead, he takes a long, slow sip of his drink and thinks of his next argument.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s plenty of good thieves.” He replies. The veins in his arms jump out as he tenses, braced for impact.</p><p> </p><p>“We don’t need a thief, we need a f-forger.” Bill replies. “And for this, we need the best.” Impact hits, and Eddie doesn’t manage to disguise his wince. Despite everything, Eddie knows he’s right. </p><p> </p><p>“He’s in Chicago.” He says, and he doesn’t have to reach far at all in his memory to pull out the location. He doesn’t even mean to keep tabs on him, really, would do the same for all their contacts, if they were useful. Except, realistically, he knows that’s a lie, and the manila folder burning a hole in the hidden compartment of his briefcase is still waiting for him to admit it.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>Richie’s 6’2 of lean muscle and soft fat, sitting one leg crossed over the other at the bar. When Bill walks in, looking wary, Richie sits forward, throws a huge, shit-eating grin on his face, and whistles him over. He’s surprised Bill doesn’t break his neck with how fast his head spins around, and then he’s making his way over and pulling Richie into a bone-crushing hug.</p><p> </p><p>“Been t-too long, man.” Bill says, his warm breath fanning over the shell of Richie’s ear.</p><p> </p><p>“You look good,” Richie lies. He looks Bill up and down, watching as Bill shrinks slightly. Big Bill’s got skinny in the last couple months. He looks older, too. He looks tired, with a streak of grey in his hair that hadn’t been there seven months ago. Bill waves off the concern in Richie’s face with a not-so-casual wave of the hand and takes a seat at the bar next to him, back to the room, shoulders hunched. Richie stays sitting the way he was, back to the bar, arms spread wide over the dark wood. Perfect vantage point for seeing the entire room, and the tail Bill brought in with him.</p><p> </p><p>“How’d you find me?” Richie asks, through a false grin that is for the benefit of the dark haired guy sneaking surreptitious glances in their direction.</p><p> </p><p>“Eddie.” </p><p> </p><p>“And how is my favourite point man? Changed much since Cairo?”</p><p> </p><p>“How was h-he in Cairo?” Bill asks, as though he doesn’t really want the answer.</p><p> </p><p>“Cute, cute cute!” Richie sing-songs. </p><p> </p><p>“I r-refuse to answer that on the g-grounds that, uh, I don’t want to.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fair.” Richie takes a sip of his drink--whiskey, neat, just because he feels cool saying it to the bartender. His gag reflex is long since gone, but it still burns on the way down. “He had the surgery, yet?”</p><p> </p><p>“What surgery?”</p><p> </p><p>“He didn’t tell you about the surgery?”</p><p> </p><p>“No?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, the surgery to get that stick out his ass?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, beep beep, Richie,” Bill says. Bill should hit him for that. He <em> does </em> hit him for that, in fact, a short sharp <em> thwack </em> to his bicep with the back of his hand. Richie’s grin only spreads wider. “I got a job for you.” Bill says then, voice turning serious. Richie bites his lip. “I see your fingers are as sticky as they’ve always been.” Bill examines the credit card Richie paid with, the words <em> Victor Criss </em> emblazoned across the front. “How’s your handwriting?”</p><p> </p><p>“Versatile.” is all Richie says in response. He downs the rest of his drink and jerks his head over to the booth in the corner. Bill follows, and out of the corner of his eye, Richie sees the tail shift slightly to keep them in view and starts to plan.</p><p> </p><p>“So, what kinda job has you bookin’ it all the way out to Chicago <em> and </em>needing a forger?” Richie asks. He doesn’t really need any excuse to say yes to the job - his sense of loyalty to Bill has never waned, even after all these years, and knowing Eddie is on the job is really enough to tempt him into buying a plane ticket to Washington from the browser of his phone. It’s been a while since Eddie’s done a job - that is, it’s been a while since Richie had an excuse to see him. It’s been a while since Eddie wanted to.</p><p> </p><p>“Inception.” Bill says, making Richie snort so hard into his drink that it comes out of his nose. From the grin on Bill’s face, he’d waited until Richie took a sip to say it. Richie balls up a napkin and throws it at his head and sets about cleaning himself up. “Look, before you say it’s impossible--”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, it’s not impossible. Just fuckin’ difficult.” Richie says dismissively, dabbing at the palm trees on his neon pink shirt. His favourite shirt too, the asshole. </p><p> </p><p>“You’ve done it before?”</p><p> </p><p>“Tried it.” He replies. “We got the idea in place but it, uh, it didn’t stick.”</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t plant it deep enough?”</p><p> </p><p>Richie takes a moment to think on it. “It’s not so much about depth as, like, the complexity of the idea. It has to be <em> simple. </em>As simple as you can get it. You can’t just say ‘take over your rival company’ or ‘sack your CEO’ cus the brain can always trace the origin of ideas like that. Say I said to you, uhhhh, don’t think about clowns. What’re you thinking about?”</p><p> </p><p>“Clowns.” Bill concedes.</p><p> </p><p>“Yep,” Richie pops the ‘p’ loud enough that the couple behind him look around. “But you know it was me who gave you the idea. It didn’t grow, uh, organically.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, so, what, we just gotta get the simplest version of the idea?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>‘Just’ </em>! Jesus christ, Bill, you’re the exact fuckin’ same. I bet Eddie’s protesting all this?”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s, heh, he’s made his opinions known.” </p><p> </p><p>Richie snorts. “I’ll bet.” He stretches his arms above his head and looks over Bill’s shoulder at the tail. “I’m in,” he says. “As soon as you lose your tail.”</p><p> </p><p>“Tail?” Bill says, his back stiffening. Richie thumbs his nose and says, “On your 6,” from behind his hand. Bill, thank god, doesn’t turn around, but his eyes are wary. “Shit, that’s one of Bower’s guys. What the fuck are you into, Bill?”</p><p> </p><p>Bill shifts uncomfortably. “R-run interference for me?” </p><p> </p><p>Richie nods. “We’ll meet back here?” He says.</p><p> </p><p>“Last place they’d s-suspect.” Bill agrees, and then Richie stands, grinning broadly, heading over to the tail. </p><p> </p><p>“Victor, is that you? How the hell are you, man?” He grips the man’s arm and claps him on the shoulder and after a moment’s hesitation, the guy twists out of his arms, sprinting after Bill, who is running out of the door. Richie shrugs and high tails it out the back entrance, losing the other guy he’s just noticed is following him. </p><p> </p><p>Ten minutes and a brief car chase later, he strolls back in, whistling under his breath. Bill is already back in the booth in the corner, and only the harsh up-and-down of his shoulders betrays the fact he’s breathing hard. Richie drops in the booth across from him and laughs. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s the most fun I’ve had in weeks,” He says, and Bill can’t help but smile back. </p><p> </p><p>“He’s not forgotten about you, y’know.” Bill says. “Eddie, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Richie replies.</p><p> </p><p>Richie leaves that afternoon with a location, a phone number, and a recent picture of Stan’s father uploaded to the cloud.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>“We need a chemist.” Bill says, two days later, joining Eddie in the kitchen. He takes the mug that Eddie hands him and starts rolling up the sleeves of the white shirt he’s wearing. It’s crushed and the collar is sticking up in the back, but Eddie recognises it as one of his own all the same. He had wondered why Bill was shiftily hanging around Eddie’s clothes rail as he was brewing the coffee, and he supposes that now he has his answer.</p><p> </p><p>“I can guess who you’re going to ask, then.” He says, indicating the shirt, and the comb he’s ran through his hair, and the beard that has been trimmed back. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Bill that the reason he looks scruffy is because he’s wanted for murder, and not because his beard is a bit too long.</p><p> </p><p>“She’s a good chemist, Eddie.” Bill says, finally fixing the collar of the shirt.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, she’s one of the best, but she’s reckless.” Eddie replies. “We need more backup on a job like this. We can’t have an unstable compound messing this up because Bev’s decided to throw something new into the mix.” Eddie puts both hands on the table and looks at Bill. “Ask Mike.”</p><p> </p><p>“We don’t need to do that.” Bill looks pained.</p><p> </p><p>“You know we do.” Eddie says, seriously. “I’ll get Bev. You go and find Mike.”</p><p> </p><p>As an obvious act of revenge, Bill calls Richie and tells him to meet Eddie at the university. Eddie stews internally when he sees Richie leaning against a lamppost, looking as tall and broad as ever. Seven months hasn’t done anything to diminish the burning Eddie feels in his stomach when he sees Richie, and he almost wishes he’d taken an antacid this morning in anticipation. Eddie’s suit today is a dark navy, almost black, with wide shoulders and the trousers fit just a little too tight over the seat. Richie’s eyes take an unsubtle sweep up and down his form and seems to find him acceptable. Richie, by contrast, is clad in a garish purple shirt with dancing pineapples on it, sunglasses pushed up onto his head, and whatever trousers he’s wearing, Eddie doesn’t know, because he averts his gaze as soon as Richie acknowledges him with a nod, a grin, and an insult about Eddie’s mother. Eddie says nothing, simply gives Richie a quick once over and walks ahead, not checking to see if he’s following. </p><p> </p><p>It’s been seven months, six days and approximately fourteen hours since Eddie last saw Richie--or rather, it’s been seven months, six days and approximately fourteen hours since Eddie woke up to the sound of a hotel room door closing, an empty bed and a note that just said, ‘Be right back’. Eddie had waited three hours for him, but he hadn’t returned. And Eddie, in the time since, has blocked every single call. He’s as intent on ignoring Richie as Richie had been to get away, then, but Richie seems determined as always to push his buttons.</p><p> </p><p>“How ya been, Eds?” Richie says, slinging an arm over Eddie’s shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t call me Eds, dickwad.” Eddie replies, and with a disgruntled huff, shrugs Richie’s arm away.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Spaghetti, your terms of endearment do touch me so,” Richie shoots back. He doesn’t touch Eddie again, but Eddie can still feel the warmth of him on his shoulder blade, on his back, circling the joint where his humerus meets his shoulder. He pushes ahead and doesn’t say anything in return. </p><p> </p><p>Their footsteps echo in the entrance hall. The young guy at the reception desk stares, open mouthed, as Eddie leans over to makes his polite equiries, and when he turns around, Richie has his eyebrows raised into his hairline. Eddie just rolls his eyes and jerks his head in the direction they’re going. The office they’re looking for is at the end of a long, white-walled corridor. It’s half office, half lab, and when they reach the door, the glass window is fogged up with steam. Richie waggles his eyebrows at Eddie, who snorts derisively and knocks sharply once, twice, three times, then waits. A few seconds later, the door snaps open and a frazzled, ginger head pokes out.</p><p> </p><p>“Eddie? Oh my god, <em> Richie? </em>Get in here! I need, like, six extra hands.” She doesn’t give them a moment to agree before she’s grabbing them both by the wrist, pulling them inside and handing them both beakers and tubes with instructions to hold them still and not move a muscle.</p><p> </p><p>“Bev, I--” </p><p> </p><p>“Talking is a muscle, Eddie!” Bev sing-songs, pulling her protective goggles over her eyes. Eddie doesn’t have time to tell her all the ways she’s wrong before she begins to pour a dark green liquid into the end of one of the tubes, tongue poking between her teeth in concentration. She’s wearing a brown work apron that is puckered with faint burn marks, which does nothing for Eddie’s already tenuously high blood pressure.</p><p> </p><p>“How come she gets goggles and we don’t?” Richie mutters between his teeth. Eddie wants to shrug, but he’s fearful that moving anything will cause the liquid to burn him or worse, cause Bev to yell at him again, so he stands stock still, eyes fixed on the beaker in his hand. The dark green liquid trips slowly from Bev’s beaker to Richie’s to his, turning a deep, molten orange in the process. It falls into the bucket at his feet and solidifies almost immediately, turning as black as burnt lava.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck,” Bev says, squatting beside it. She grabs a pen from her desk and probes carefully at the material; it grabs hold of the pen and sucks it in slowly, like quicksand. “Well, that compound is a bust.” She stands and wipes off her hands on her apron, turning to write some notes on the desk.</p><p> </p><p>“Compound?” Eddie says, carefully placing the beaker on the workbench by the window. “Bev, that was meant to go <em> inside you?” </em> The old familiar sirens start to go off in his head - at the start of his dream training, he’d had panic attack after panic attack picturing the Somnacin compound rushing through his veins. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, it’s not going to now, silly.” She laughs. Her laugh has always been the best, loud and free and clear as bells, and Eddie feels the tension in his chest loosen just the tiniest bit. “I was trying something new, but it didn’t work, so that whole experiment is scrapped. I’ll just stick with the one I’ve got for now, see if I can’t improve that.” She turns to them, dirty rag stuffed in the pocket of her apron, hair half pulled back and falling out of the clip, pen smudged on her nose. She’s still the most beautiful person Eddie has ever seen, and Eddie isn’t even interested in people like her. Her hands go to her hips and she grins. “So, what can I do for you boys?”</p><p> </p><p>“We got a job for you, babe,” Richie says, shoving his beaker on the worktop next to Eddie’s. Eddie watches in muted horror as the tiniest bit of liquid sears a hole right through the surface. </p><p> </p><p>“Something illegal, I hope,” Bev grins. She sits on the edge of her desk. Eddie and Richie stay standing. “This job is great but <em> Jesus </em>, give me something fun to do every now and then. Who’s the Extractor?”</p><p> </p><p>Richie and Eddie exchange a glance, so fleeting and yet contains every possible word it could. Even after seven months, six days and fourteen and a half hours, they can still communicate without speaking. Bev sees the glance and her eyes narrow. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s Bill, isn’t it?” She says. “You were gonna let me come on a job with Denbrough and not even give me a heads up?”</p><p> </p><p>“We didn’t have to!” Eddie says. He tries not to note how high his voice gets. “You got there before we could!”</p><p> </p><p>“If it helps, he asked for you by name.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course he fuckin’ did, Rich.” Bev says, rolling her eyes. “He was the one who whisked us off to the Highlands and broke up with me in the wilderness. He obviously feels guilty.”</p><p> </p><p>“If it helps, I think being accused of murdering his brother and going on the run from the authorities might have moved that particular guilt down his priority list.” Eddie says.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, not <em> too </em>far down. But still, down.” Richie adds. Eddie nods in agreement.</p><p> </p><p>“Look, I’ll do it, of course I will, because I love you guys.” She indicates the two of them. “And Bill is, like, fine, I guess. So long as he doesn’t screw me over again. <em> But </em>I want to come into the dream with you.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s fine.” Eddie agrees. “We need you down there, anyway. Things are gonna get… complicated.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh?” Bev says, a knowing smile curving her lips. “Tell me everything.” </p><p> </p><p>— </p><p> </p><p>The building is all dark brick and trees when Bill gets out of the taxi. The driver had eyed him in the rear view mirror the entire journey over, but nothing had come of his frown except a few cryptic questions that Bill had chosen not to answer. As the taxi drives away, Bill looks up at the imposing building before him. He can’t picture Mike working here. He can’t picture anyone he knows working here. He’d never intended to set foot in a facility like this, but Eddie, as he is so expert at doing, forced his hand. The way he and Mike had left things had been… tense, to say the least. But that was before Georgie was buried, before Bill used up all his chances, before Bill was <em> desperate </em>. He takes a deep breath, runs his hand through his hair, and walks up the steps.</p><p> </p><p>The facility is run by a company called Maturin and was Proudly Established In The Year 2019 according to the plaque on the door. Bill looks at the shiny plaque, new enough that it hasn’t yet been tarnished, and leaves a deliberate smudge directly over the name. He hums under his breath and pushes open the door. Big windows covered in dark grey blinds let in filtered light behind him, and the walls are covered in framed photographs, motivational posters and pricing information. There’s a receptionist sitting behind a clean, white desk that runs the entire length of the lobby. She is wearing a crisp baby blue uniform and a hat pinned into her blonde curls. Her smile is cold, all teeth, and Bill is reminded painfully of Nurse Ratched. </p><p> </p><p>“Hi there!” She says, brightly, though her eyes are glinting with a look that says <em> I dare you </em>. “How can I help you today?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, uh.” Bill says, stupidly. He kicks himself internally and breathes deep. The taxi ride had taken over forty minutes, but it still hadn’t given him the time he needed to prepare himself to see Mike again. </p><p> </p><p>“The details of our membership packages can be found in the leaflet there, or on our website.” The woman says. “Unfortunately, we do not offer finance or credit options at this time.” </p><p> </p><p>Bill frowns in confusion. Then he remembers what he’s wearing - the scuffed jean jacket, the crumpled white shirt. His ‘sadness beard’, as Eddie had so kindly called it. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh. <em> Oh! </em>” Bill says, waving a hand. “No, I’m n-not interested in b-becoming a member.” The receptionist doesn’t do a very good job hiding her relief, which actually makes Bill feel a little hurt, but he shakes it off and concentrates on what he’s actually here for. “I’m here to see Mike Hanlon.”</p><p> </p><p>“Does he know you’re coming?” The suspicious look is back. Her immaculate red nails <em> clackclackclack </em>on the surface of the desk. Bill’s eyes home in on the movement.</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, no. But I’m his e-- old friend. I’m an old friend.” Bill swallows audibly. “Bill De- Bill Derry. He’ll know who I am.”</p><p> </p><p>She purses her lips and huffs through her nose. A war seems to go on in her head for a moment and then she turns to her computer, looks something up with a lightning quick tap of the keys, and picks up the phone. Her red nail twists into the dark cord as she wraps it around her finger. There’s a short conversation in which she says nothing but his name, and she places the receiver back in the cradle. She types something on her computer. He clears his throat.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, he said no.” The small smile on her lips is practically dripping with contempt. </p><p> </p><p>“Right. Thanks.” Bill says, chaps once on the desk with his knuckles and leaves the way he came in. He stands on the top of the steps outside the door and crosses his arms as a chill wind suddenly breezes past him. The wind is the only reason he doesn’t immediately hear the voice behind him - that and the fact that he really, really sucks at being on the run from the law.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Bill.” </em>Comes the voice again from somewhere behind his left shoulder. He starts and turns. Mike is standing there, dressed in the same blue uniform the receptionist had been wearing, buttoned up to his neck, but with long navy sleeves underneath. He has on blue surgical gloves and a face mask is hanging around his neck. He’s as handsome as he ever was, with a shadow of a beard growing in and his big arms folded, but there’s no smile on his face. There’s none of the gentleness in his eyes that he’d always had for Bill. </p><p> </p><p>“The m-mean lady at the desk said you d-didn’t want to see me.” Bill says, and he hates how childish he sounds. Mike always has a way of disarming him, and he knows why, but he isn’t quite ready to dive into that particular nest of vipers. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t.” Mike says, simply and that… that hurts. Bill bites his lip and nods. “But I know that if I don’t speak to you now, Eddie’ll come, and I’d rather not burn my bridges with this place before it’s necessary. So. Talk.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can we go s-somewhere p-p-private?” Bill says, relief washing over him at the mere presence of Mike. Even when he’s angry, he has an air of certainty about him that had always spoken to Bill’s own personal brand of recklessness. “I’m kinda, y’know. On the run right now.”</p><p> </p><p>Mike rolls his eyes. He jerks his head behind him and Bill follows him round the side of the building, where a fire door is propped open to let Mike back in. When they enter the building, Bill is overwhelmed by the shine of everything. It’s all crisp white and silver, polished to such a high gloss that Bill can see his own face reflected back at him from the walls. Mike leads him along identical corridor after identical corridor, navigating a maze that seems to make sense only to him, and then eventually turns right into what looks like an observation booth. There’s a small control panel sitting in front of a glass window, a single chair and a cooling cup of coffee in a mug that says “Welcome to Derry”. Bill swallows past the bile that rises in his throat. Georgie had bought Mike that mug the year before he died. Mike sits down in the chair; Bill is left to stand awkwardly by the door. He closes it behind him and looks through the glass. Inside the room beyond are five beds, arranged in a flower with their heads in the middle. Each bed is occupied by a person in a white gown, sleep mask secured over their eyes, and an IV line dripping amber liquid into their arm. On the ceiling, scenes of nature are being projected in shifting, swirling patterns, throwing each bed into sharp relief. The people do not move - if Bill didn’t know better, he’d say they were dead. </p><p> </p><p>“Peddling dreams to the r-rich and f-famous, Mikey?” Bill murmurs, eyes fixed on the person closest to them—the host of a very successful late night talk show. “Thought we’d agreed that w-was beneath us.”</p><p> </p><p>Mike laughs a humourless laugh, and Bill is chilled at the look on his face. </p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t really give me a choice, did you? You and Eddie went on the run, Richie’s been jumping from place to place leaving chaos in his wake. You all left <em> me </em> holding the ball, and this place gave me protection. I know too much about their whole operation, now. They can’t throw me out any more than I can take them down. It’s a mutually toxic relationship.” He looks through the glass at the sleeping patients before him, the slow and steady rise of their chests. “I’ve been waiting for you, you know. I knew you’d be able to find me here so I just… stayed. Was worried you’d all forgotten about me.”</p><p> </p><p>“We c-couldn’t forget about you, Mike.” Bill murmurs. “You’re the o-only one of us who could go legit. I didn’t want you to r-run if you didn’t have to.”</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t give me the choice.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, I really am. I’m sorry you’ve b-been keeping the l-light on for us and we didn't find our way h-home until now.”</p><p> </p><p>“We?”</p><p> </p><p>“I. I didn’t. I’m sorry.” Bill ducks his head and rubs at the back of his neck. When he looks up again, Mike’s brows have knitted together and he seems to be warring with himself about something or other. And then he stands, opens his arms, and pulls Bill in for a bone-crushing hug. Mike’s always hugged like it was the last time, but this hug feels tinged with something even more desperate - relief, and beneath that, thinly veiled anticipation. Bill raises his hands and pats at the solid meat of his shoulders, and then he’s pressing his face into Mike’s collarbone and letting out a deep, long breath.</p><p> </p><p>“God, I’ve missed you.” </p><p> </p><p>“You too, Big Bill.” </p><p> </p><p>They stand like that for what feels like hours, but can’t be longer than a few minutes. When they pull back, Mike keeps his arms around Bill’s shoulders. Bill has to look up at him like this, has to crane his neck slightly to see his face, and it reminds him of years ago, when Mike had done his growing but Bill had some left to do, and Mike was so much taller than him. Bill sucks a breath into lungs that feel a little too tight inside his chest, and his eyes drop to Mike’s lips. Mike follows the movement and lets go, steps back, allowing the cold to rush between them. </p><p> </p><p>“I-” He says, and then Bill cuts in, unable to leave a moment to be just a moment.</p><p> </p><p>“We have a job.” He throws out, careless, and winces. Mike, who either doesn’t notice or is kind enough to pretend, just looks thoughtful, sitting back down in his ergonomic chair and leaning right back. </p><p> </p><p>“Will it be fun?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, Richie and Eddie are b-both on the job, so no d-doubt they’ll make each other crazy.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m in.”</p><p> </p><p>Bill leaves with a promise from Mike that he’ll join them at the warehouse tonight and a new number programmed into his burner phone. In the taxi back, he slides down the seat and looks at the number, the ten digits that connect them. He locks the phone and presses it against his lips, looking out as the scenery passes them by, feeling, for the first time in a while, that they might actually get out of this.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
—</p><p> </p><p>By the time Bill gets back, feeling like his skin is too tight on his body, Eddie, Richie and Bev have made themselves at home in the centre of the warehouse. It’s only the three of them, but Richie’s energy counts for about three people on his own, and Bev and Richie together is practically an entire party. They’ve pulled all the chairs from the kitchen and the few loungers that had been stacked in the corner into the centre of the room and made a makeshift social space. Richie is lying back on one of the loungers, hands behind his head, whistling an unidentifiable tune. His suitcase, open on the ground next to him, appears to contain nothing but old copies of fishing magazines and left shoes. Eddie is sitting straight backed on a chair, pretending to read a report from a brown clipboard, but Bill can see the little glances he keeps sneaking Richie’s way, and Richie pretending not to notice. Bev has her lounger sandwiched against Richie’s and is lying on her stomach, feet in the air and head dangling off the end, rummaging in a box on the ground. She’s taken her sandals off and hung them on the arm of Eddie’s chair and as Bill enters, she swings herself back up to a sitting position and leans down to paint her toenails.</p><p> </p><p>“I see you’ve made yourself at home.” Bill says. Richie flips him off and goes back to staring at the ceiling and staring at Eddie in turn. Bev shakes the bottle of nail polish more aggressively than before. He flops down on the chair that had been left for him, unbuttons the top button of his shirt and runs a hand through his hair. </p><p> </p><p>“How’d it go with Mike?” Eddie asks, not looking up from his clipboard. Bev’s eyes deliberately don’t raise from where they’re fixed on the floor and Richie starts to hum You Can’t Always Get What You Want, low, in the back of his throat. </p><p> </p><p>“It, uh, definitely went.” Bill says, cryptically, glancing at Bev. “He’s coming through tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>“Very good.” Eddie says.</p><p> </p><p>“Team’s nearly complete.” Bill says. “We just need an architect.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not working with Hockstetter again, Bill, I swear to God. I will kill you.” Eddie says. </p><p> </p><p>“You worked with Hockstetter<em> ?” </em>Richie says, sitting up. “Jesus, Bill, how desperate were you? You didn’t hear how he fucked over Betty Ripsom a couple months back?”</p><p> </p><p>“I was a bit preoccupied with the whole <em> getting framed for murder </em>thing, Rich.”</p><p> </p><p>Richie waves a dismissive hand. “That all you talk about, Big Bill? The fact you’re on the run from the law because they think you killed you--”</p><p> </p><p>“Beep beep, Richie.” Eddie and Bev say in tandem. WIthout looking up from their respective tasks, they reach up and do a perfectly synchronised high five.</p><p> </p><p>“I hate it here.” Richie says, folding his arms and lying down again. Snorting a laugh at Richie’s expense, Bev finishes painting her nails and throws the bottle back into the box at her feet. </p><p> </p><p>“Look, we still need an architect,” she says, decisively. “And I know one of the best.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?” Bill says, eagerly. “What’s her name?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>His </em> name is Ben. He teaches architecture at the university. He’s never designed for dreams before but his work is <em> insane </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“If he’s never designed for dreamers-” Bill starts, but Eddie cuts him off.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve burned bridges with all the architects who have.” He snaps. “We can show him the ropes,” He looks at Bev for approval and she gives it readily. “Bev, we can go get him now.” </p><p> </p><p>“Once my nails are dry!” She says, wiggling her toes. </p><p> </p><p>“I can go.” Bill says, though his lack of enthusiasm shows in his face and his grimace.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine, man.” Eddie waves him off. “You have something else to deal with just now, anyway.” He nods in the direction of the door where the now familiar silhouette of Stan is standing, holding an umbrella and a briefcase.</p><p> </p><p>“Dude, we gotta start locking that door.” Richie says, sitting up again.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>Eddie is all too glad to leave Richie to deal with the weird energy in the warehouse. He hasn’t seen Bev in forever and he’d forgotten how nice it was to have someone around who isn’t dealing with the unceasing guilt of their brother’s murder and isn’t Richie. Not that he minds being around Richie, despite what he tells everyone—that’s a path he’s not going to go down today. Bev links her arm with his as they head out of the door and the closeness is something Eddie normally wouldn't indulge. For Bev, though, he knows this kind of affection isn’t given easily, and he relishes it. In her heels, she’s just a couple inches shorter than him so she leans over to kiss him on the cheek and drags him bodily away from the warehouse to his Escalade.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve missed you, hon,” She says, buckling herself into the passenger seat. “I am very upset you got a douchebag overcompensation car, though.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey!” Eddie says, putting the car in reverse. “Bill needed something he could fuck around in the back of.” He nods his head towards the papers strewn about the back of the car. “And I wanted something that would withstand significant impact. These guys that are after us don’t pull their punches - or break fast enough to not hit me.”</p><p> </p><p>Bev settles herself into the seat, shuffling down and then putting her feet up on the dashboard. Eddie, still in reverse, swats at her ankles. </p><p> </p><p>“If we crash, your femur will go through your pelvis and kill you.” Eddie says, matter of factly. “And I don’t know enough first aid to fix that in a pinch.”</p><p> </p><p>She laughs and lowers her feet. “Same as always, Doctor Kaspbrak.”</p><p> </p><p>“Just trying to save you from an excruciating death, Bev.” He replies, smirking. They get to the edge of the compound and Eddie swings the car around expertly but recklessly, and Bev grabs onto the dashboard to steady herself. </p><p> </p><p>“Back to the university?” Eddie asks, throwing the car into drive. </p><p> </p><p>“No,” Bev says. “Ben goes to this disgusting dive bar about six blocks from the university. I’ve offered to take him to, like, literally anywhere else but he’s super loyal to the Friday night bartender.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really?” Eddie wrinkles his nose. </p><p> </p><p>“I think they’re having some sort of emotional affair? The dude told Ben about his kids and Ben, like, fell in love with him. You’ll see what I mean.” </p><p> </p><p>As soon as Bev has given him a vague location, Eddie consults with the map in his mind and zooms ahead, barely stopping for lights.</p><p> </p><p>The Red Wheel is a dusty little bar that sits between a post office and an apartment building. Eddie’s shiny car looks completely out of place parked out front. He looks both ways before he leaves it behind and takes one more glance over his shoulder before they walk in.</p><p> </p><p>“Relax, Eddie. No one is gonna steal your dick metaphor.” </p><p> </p><p>Eddie doesn’t dignify that with a response, but he does deliberately stop himself from checking on the car one more time before the door closes behind them, unwilling to give Bev the satisfaction.</p><p> </p><p>Inside, the lights are low even though it’s barely six o’clock. Only a couple of tables are occupied. The bar is dark wood, scuffed in places, but shiny on top, and a couple of the stools are taped up with black duct tape. Scanning the entire place, Eddie can see the following:</p><p>One (1) man with a suspicious package.</p><p>Six (6) couples, sitting close enough to conceal a weapon between them.</p><p>Two (2) women staring at him and discussing, presumably, whether to beckon him over.</p><p> </p><p>He catalogues all of this mentally and then proceeds to check out the emergency exits. Bev heads over to the bar, where a tall guy in jeans is sitting nursing a whiskey. He’s chatting to the bartender, a skinny guy with a ponytail and a goatee, and playing with a silver coin in one hand. When Bev touches his shoulder, the coin gets stowed away in his pocket immediately. Eddie clocks the movement and files it away. </p><p> </p><p>“Eddie!” Bev calls, and when he doesn’t move from his position by the door immediately, she rushes over, grabs his hand and pulls him bodily to the bar. “This is Ben. Ben, this is Eddie. He’s one of the old friends I’ve told you about.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard all about you.” He says. “You’re funny.” When Eddie’s head snaps around to face him, he covers his mouth to disguise a laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“What the fuck are you laughing at?” Eddie says, immediately incensed. That only serves to make Bev join in Ben’s laughter and Eddie folds his arms and clenches his jaw. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, man, but Bev told me that if we ever met you’d get mad at me for something, like, <em> immediately </em>, and then you did. Really, I’m happy to meet you.” He holds out his hand and Eddie hesitates for half a second before taking it. No point in being uncivil to the man Bev obviously has a crush on, if the way she’s hanging off his arm indicates. Bev seats herself at the bar next to Ben and orders herself a shot of Grey Goose and Eddie a rum and coke. Eddie sighs, sees he isn't escaping any time soon and sits himself down. The credit card she hands over is one of Bill’s various fake identities. He raises his eyebrows at her, and she shrugs.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” She says. “You think Richie’s the only light-fingered one around here? Besides, I haven’t forgiven him yet.” She throws her hair dramatically over her shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, you have.” Eddie says, watching the bartender’s back as he mixes a drink. “It’s been eight years.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I have.” She grins. “But best not tell him for a while.”</p><p> </p><p>“Agreed.” Eddie nods. Ben is watching the exchange with a soft, amused grin, and Eddie can see the look in his eyes when he stares at Beverly. She isn’t looking at him yet, but he can see her eyes shifting in his direction and Eddie feels, suddenly, absurdly lonely. He thinks of Bev who has been in love and out of love enough times for the both of them and just… there’s only one person he ever truly wanted and he left before Eddie really got a chance to have him. He pushes the rum and coke away from him, gestures to the bartender for a water, and changes the topic of conversation. </p><p> </p><p>“Have you heard of the Dreamshare programme?” Eddie says. Ben looks startled but, to his credit, recovers quickly.</p><p> </p><p>“The government was designing training programmes, right?” He says, glancing to Bev for confirmation. She just purses her lips. She’s never been a fan of Bill and Eddie’s origins in the world of dreaming, and she’s never been shy about sharing that. “They were gonna use it to let soldiers experience real pain, real danger—”</p><p> </p><p>“Real <em> death </em>.” Bev interrupts, unable to stop herself. Eddie checks himself before he grins, and nods to Ben to continue.</p><p> </p><p>“So, how did architects become involved?” Ben says. </p><p> </p><p>“Can’t throw someone off a building if there’s not building to climb, right?” Bev mutters. She drains her drink in one go and gestures for another.</p><p> </p><p>“I guess.” Bill says, warily. “They shut it down, though, didn’t they?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, they did. After a couple dozen of their recruits <em> killed themselves </em> beca--”</p><p> </p><p>“Bev.” Eddie says, a hand on her arm. He can sense the righteous anger rising in her and honestly, he’s exhausted and he doesn’t want to rehash an argument they’ve been having for a decade. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.” She says, though he senses she isn’t really sorry at all. Ben just blinks. “You’re right. They did shut it down.” She says. “But they, uh, didn’t realise that a couple dozen of the PASIV cases - that’s the device they used in the dreamshare programme - were, uh, <em> liberated </em> by some well meaning citizens.” She looks pointedly at Eddie, who stalwartly refuses to look guilty. He and Bill had a fucking blast stealing that device. “The dream community has grown underground since then. Some pockets are still legal - what I do, for instance, designing medical grade compounds for trauma patients, that’s been legally mandated by the government as an essential service. But some people use their powers for, well,” She glances at Eddie again. “ <em> Nefarious </em>reasons, let’s say.”</p><p> </p><p>“And it’s illegal? Ben says, brows knitting together. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, but it’s fucking <em> fun. </em>” Bev says, and grins so wide all her teeth are on show.</p><p> </p><p>“I am… willing to listen.” Ben says. Bev claps her hands in delight and orders three more shots.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>Stan and Richie and Bill stand in a triangle for at least three minutes after the others leave. Richie looks between the other two men and then walks forward, rolling his eyes, and introduces himself. Stan answers with his usual dryness, and Richie can’t help but grin. </p><p> </p><p>“You have a knack for g-getting places you’re not s-supposed to, Mr Uris.” Bill says, gesturing Stan to sit down. He does, gingerly, on one of the lawn chairs, bracing his hands on the arms, splaying his fingers wide. He looks extremely uncomfortable. The signet ring glints on his right hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Stan, please.” Stan says. “If we’re breaking into my father’s mind together, the least we can do is be on first name terms.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fair enough.” Bill replies. </p><p> </p><p>“Speaking of…” Stan gives a surreptitious glance around at Richie, who has resumed his position on one of the loungers and is throwing a gold arcade token in the air, catching it with one hand. Richie is feigning disinterest in the conversation, but to the trained eye - to Eddie’s eye, if he were here - all of Richie’s senses are on high alert. “I want to come under with you. Into the dream.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s, uh, highly against protocol, Stan.” Bill says, diplomatically.</p><p> </p><p>“No room for tourists on a job like this, dude.” Richie says, less diplomatically. “I’m gonna be forging on every level. I don’t have time to be on <em> babysitting </em> duty while we do that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Beep beep, Richie.” Bill says, not looking at him.</p><p> </p><p>“No, man. Don’t fuckin’ beep me for this. We <em> cannot </em> compromise literal <em> inception </em> because some cardigan wants to joyride with us - no offense.” Stan waves a dismissive hand, quietly amused. “Bill, you can’t really be considering this.”</p><p> </p><p>“If I may interject-” Stan starts, and Bill says ‘yes’ at the same time as Richie says ‘no’, so Stan takes their confusion as his opportunity. “I want to make sure the job is completed properly. He <em> is </em>my father, after all. And I can’t very well go to him after it all asking to leave if he’s just going to turn around and freeze all my assets, can I?”</p><p> </p><p>“Bill…” Richie says, warningly.  </p><p> </p><p>“He’s the one p-paying us, Rich,” is all Bill says, and Richie’s had it. He throws himself off the lounger and stalks into the corner, stretching out on the cot he knows is Eddie’s, but chooses to ignore that fact for the time being, lest it drive him completely wild. He looks back over at the two men, now both leaning forward as Bill presumably explains the basics of dreamshare. Richie sighs. Bill is a man who has only stayed alive this long by being slightly less incompetent than the people chasing him, and Richie, for the first time, isn’t sure if this job is worth the hassle.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i've had an absolute blast writing this and i hope you have enjoyed reading it!! i hope to update semi-regularly because i have a large chunk of it written :D</p></blockquote></div></div>
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